Let No Man Put Asunder
by Kailin
Summary: Christmas in Lyminster continues, but there is little cheer to be found at the vicarage. Part six.


A/N: No, they're not married yet, nor are things looking promising for Foyle and Sam. Thanks to Persiflage for her excellent and timely beta work.

…_**Let No Man Put Asunder**_

They walked, and they talked. Future plans, hopes, dreams, all seemed possible in the deep twilight of Christmas Eve in Lyminster.

It was Christopher who suggested that they probably needed to return to the vicarage. Sam pulled a face.

"Must we? I'm likely to be in hot water. Abandon the Christmas Tea _and _vanish for an hour? At least I'm too old for my parents to send me to my room," Sam complained, but willingly turned back when Foyle steered her in the opposite direction. "And please don't remind me that they only have my best interests in mind. I know they do, but it's still infuriating. I wish we could just go back to Hastings."

"I'm afraid you're out of luck there," he pointed out. "The last trains have run, you know."

"Stupid trains."

When they reached the vicarage, Sam tugged at Christopher's coat sleeve as he reached out to open the door for her.

"Wait. Just one more kiss, do you think?" she asked wistfully.

"Absolutely, Miss Stewart. After all, it is Christmas Eve," Foyle said, smiling.

But before he could gather Sam into his arms, the door opened and an elderly woman tottered out past Sam and Foyle, continuing to call out her Thank You's and It Was Ever So Lovely's over her shoulder.

"Oh," she quavered, stopping short to address them, "I'm afraid you're too late for the Tea, my dears. If I'm not mistaken, I'm the very last to leave."

"What a shame," Sam muttered, but Foyle pushed her through the doorway.

They hung up coats and hats. Eleanor Stewart appeared, looking utterly frazzled.

"There you are. Where on earth have you been, Samantha? I thought I would have to do the clean-up all by myself."

Out of the corner of his eye, Foyle could see Sam droop visibly. She made a move toward the kitchen, but he caught her hand and pulled her back.

"Mrs. Stewart, why don't Sam and I take care of the clean-up for you? I'm sure you're exhausted. You should rest up before the midnight service."

"Oh." The woman's eyes widened. "Why… well… All right, thank you. I will."

"First, though, "Foyle continued, "could you call your husband? Sam and I have something to say."

"What's all this?" Reverend Stewart appeared at the doorway of his study before his wife could summon him.

"Iain, Mrs. Stewart, Sam and I have talked, and she has agreed to marry me," Christopher said simply, wearing a tight smile that defied anyone to take exception. Sam held up her hand so that the hallway light glinted on the modest engagement ring.

There was a brief silence that was not nearly as brief as it should have been.

"Well. Congratulations to both of you." Reverend Stewart's smile was guarded. He leaned over to give his daughter a peck on the cheek, then shook Foyle's hand. "I was under the impression that you had planned to propose tomorrow, Christopher."

It was a thinly-veiled accusation, one which Foyle ignored completely. "Circumstances demanded otherwise."

"What a pretty ring," Eleanor volunteered, reaching out to admire it. "Oh, dear. It's a bit too large, isn't it? You need to have that fitted as soon as possible so you don't lose it."

Sam turned a deep shade of crimson. She opened her mouth for a quick retort, but Foyle gripped her hand harder than ever.

"Yes, Mum," she managed finally, "I'll do that. Good idea."

"I suppose you'll be wanting a new gown, although I doubt rationing will allow it. You should really try to reuse the dress you had made for Adam…"

"We'll discuss it later, Mum," Sam said in a strangled voice.

"Why don't we get to the clean-up, then, hmm?" Foyle's tone brooked no discussion. Sam in tow, he slid between the two Stewarts and headed for the kitchen. When the kitchen door had swung closed behind her, Sam drew in a shuddering breath.

"I don't think I shall live to get back to Hastings," she moaned.

"You'd better, since I fully intend to marry you." Christopher surveyed the stacks of dirty dishes, pots and pans; he peeled off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. "Wash or dry?"

"I don't care."

"Why don't you dry?" he suggested, already rolling up his shirt sleeves. A mischievous twinkle appeared in his eye. "If you wash, your ring might slide off and go down the drain."

Sam took a tea towel from the sink and slapped him across the shoulder with it.

"And you, Mr. Foyle," she grumbled, "may not live to get back to Hastings, either."

…..

Thankfully, Christmas took over at that point. There was the midnight service, followed by precious little sleep before Christmas Day services began. Christmas dinner found everyone, save Reverend Stewart, back in the kitchen for preparations. With so much to do, the Stewarts had been content to let the subject of marriage lie for the time being. It wasn't until dessert had been cleared from the table that Iain finally spoke up.

"I've been thinking about your request, Christopher." Reverend Stewart rubbed the handle of his teacup absently with one finger.

"My request?" Foyle repeated, temporarily at a loss.

"You asked me to give my blessing to you and Samantha."

Sam perked up in her chair, all ears.

Iain regarded his daughter and Foyle with an unreadable expression. "You may marry with my blessing – but under one condition."

"And that is…?" Christopher was automatically wary.

"That you delay marrying for a year. Enjoy a long engagement to give yourselves time to be certain that this is what you truly want."

"A year!" Sam blurted, horrified. "I don't want to wait a year!"

Reverend Stewart shook his head dismissively. "I think it's the wisest course of action, my dear."

Foyle forced himself to reach calmly for Sam's hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. He had almost said aloud_, Just how many good years do you think I have left, Iain_? If nothing else, he thought grimly, his time as a detective had taught him how to hold his tongue and give nothing away.

"In that case," he said with deliberate cordiality, "Sam and I would like to schedule our wedding for a year from today."

"Get married on Christmas Day?" Eleanor was taken aback.

"No? Christmas Eve, then?" Christopher offered. "No, you have the Christmas Tea. How about Boxing Day?"

Iain Stewart stared at Foyle in consternation. You're joking, surely."

"Not at all. You asked us to wait a year. I'm just asking to set a date."

Sam, who knew the expression on Foyle's face – that of a policeman whose patience was being sorely tested – quite well, tried to smile brightly.

"I'm sure you'll be able to find a day on the church calendar, Dad," she put in. "You could look before we go back to Hastings."

Eleanor Stewart, who knew the expression on Iain's face – that of a vicar who was accustomed to bearing influence on the behavior of others – quite well, rose from her seat abruptly.

"Let's discuss all those details later. Why don't we move into the living room? It's almost time for His Majesty's Christmas Day speech. Then, we can open our presents after." It was more order than suggestion.

"Jolly good," Sam agreed, standing so swiftly that her chair nearly toppled.

Foyle folded his napkin precisely and placed it on the table, climbing to his feet at the same time as Reverend Stewart. Each man gave the other a measured glance as they arose, a silent exchange that spoke volumes.

…..

Christmas Day dragged on, the atmosphere at the vicarage being one of rather forced Christmas cheer overlying unmistakable tension. When Boxing Day dawned bright and cold, Reverend and Mrs. Stewart announced that they would be spending much of the day distributing Christmas hampers to the housebound in their congregation. They invited Foyle and Sam to accompany them, but the invitation was offered half-heartedly at best, and was quickly declined. Christopher suspected that the Stewarts were as happy to be out of the house as he and Sam were to have them gone – although, he thought, her parents were probably not thrilled with the idea of leaving the two of them in the house alone. He had been ready to remind them that he and Sam were both adults and did not require chaperones, but the Stewarts left without voicing their concerns.

"Thank God," Sam muttered as the door closed behind her parents. "Christopher, I don't care what we have to do to wake up on time in the morning. We are _not_ missing our train back to Hastings."

Foyle slid an arm around her shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Sam. This hasn't been the most relaxing of Christmases, has it? Although I did warn you…"

"I know." She sighed, her head sagging onto his shoulder. "I didn't really expect my parents to be over the moon about us, but this terrible politeness is wearing on my nerves."

"Mine, too."

"I don't suppose…"

Christopher, who had learned by now that when Sam began a sentence with those three words it meant something outrageous was likely to follow, immediately said, "You don't suppose what?"

Sam disentangled herself from the one-arm embrace and wandered into the living room, deliberately not facing Foyle.

"I don't suppose… well… I've heard…"

"Out with it, Sam."

"Scotland. We could always go to Scotland," she blurted. "Gretna Green, isn't it? Get married over the anvil, or whatever it is they say?"

"Elope, you mean?" Foyle shook his head. "I hate to burst your bubble, dear heart, but the law changed six years ago. No more quick weddings."

"Oh, damn," Sam blurted, then squeezed her eyes shut in chagrin. "And now I suppose I shall have to do some sort of penance for cursing in the vicarage."

Christopher's mouth quirked into a wry smile. "It seems to me that you're already doing your penance."

"You certainly have that pegged." Sam slumped onto the sofa. "My parents are usually quite nice. Really, they are."

"They're just worried about their little girl who's not so little anymore."

"I don't want to wait a year to marry you, Christopher." She shot him a look of pure desperation. "I was hoping for spring at the latest."

"Let's just play by your father's rules for now and see what happens. He may change his mind about the year issue."

"Do _you _think what he's asking is reasonable?"

"It would be reasonable if you and I had only recently become acquainted. Considering that we've known each other for so many years and under such a variety of circumstances, I think it's rubbish."

Sam sighed. "We can still plan for our wedding, right?

"Absolutely. And maybe by the time next December rolls around, Andrew will have decided that I haven't abandoned all good sense."

She tugged Foyle down to sit next to her on the sofa. "We're a sad pair, aren't we? Nobody but us seems to think that you and I together is a wonderful thing."

"They'll get over it. Someday you'll look back at this and laugh."

Sam interlocked her fingers with Christopher's. "At least we have some time together now. And we're alone," she pointed out tentatively.

"And that, Samantha, is a dangerous thing. I suggest we take a very long walk around your village."

"But you saw most of it the other afternoon during the Tea," Sam pointed out, her eyes sparkling a bit too eagerly for Foyle's comfort.

"And as long as your parents are in the neighborhood, I'll see it as many times as necessary."

…..

Sam needn't have worried about missing the train the next morning. Foyle was wide awake by five, the options – or lack thereof – running through his head like a broken record. He wasn't surprised that complications in regard to marrying Sam had arisen; in fact, he couldn't recall a time when anything in his life had gone without a hitch. But just once, how nice would it have been to have everything go, as Sam would say, tickety-boo?

Iain Stewart's conditional blessing was an annoyance. If the vicar thought that the Sam Stewart of today would submit to her father's wishes as meekly as she had six years earlier, he was in for a surprise. Still, Sam would surely want to be married here in Lyminster by her father, despite her suggestion to elope. His only recourse, Foyle decided, was to encourage Sam to be patient and hope that the Stewarts eventually agreed to an earlier wedding. As to what he needed to do with Andrew, Christopher had no clue. Patience was evidently the keyword where all were concerned.

By six, the entire household was awake. Christopher had already shaved and packed his bag; by the time he started downstairs for breakfast, Sam was coming down the hall with the same thing in mind.

"'Morning," she said, running a hand through the back of her hair to fluff it a bit. "Did you sleep well?"

"I wouldn't call it that."

Sam sighed. "Nor would I. I kept thinking about things. About us."

"Looking for answers? I didn't find any. Did you?"

"No. You're quite sure about the marriage law in Scotland?"

"Quite sure."

Voices from the kitchen indicated that Reverend and Mrs. Stewart were already there. Foyle halted in mid-step, on the stairs, as did Sam a moment later. From the tone and tenor, the Stewarts were evidently having a somewhat heated discussion.

"- I don't know what more we can do, Eleanor," the vicar was saying. "You'll see: by this time next year, Sam will have dropped Mr. Foyle and be wildly in love with some young man back from service."

"And what if she doesn't, Iain? The girl has hopped from one silly job to another ever since he left the police force. She needs someone to take care of her, someone young like her. Can't you simply sit her down and tell her that we don't approve?"

"'Sit her down'? I can't just 'sit her down' and lay down the law. She's not a child anymore."

"And your _blessing…_ Why did you have to do that? If they last the year, then you'll be forced to marry them!"

"Believe me, if I thought for one moment that their affection would last, I wouldn't have put the condition on it, Eleanor. It's obvious that Christopher cares deeply about her, but it's not fair to either of them to continue on in this engagement. What sort of marriage would they have? At some point, he'll tire of putting up with her flighty ways, and she'll be on the lookout for someone who can keep up with her. And God forbid that she end up caring for a feeble old man!"

"Oh, I wish she had never gone to Hastings in the first place!"

Foyle glanced at Sam, standing on the step above him. She had gone utterly pale, her hands clenched into fists at her side.

"An early taxi, I think?" he murmured to her gently, reaching for one of her hands.

Sam nodded, looking as though she wanted to burst into tears. "Yes, please. I'm not really hungry anymore."

Under other circumstances, Christopher would have joked about how Sam not being hungry was cause for grave concern. Instead, he asked, "Do you want to go in to say goodbye to your parents?"

A vigorous shake of her head.

"You go back upstairs and finish packing. I'll call the taxi."

Foyle headed down the final few stairs and into Reverend Stewart's study, and found the phone sitting on a corner of the desk. He dialed an 'O' for the operator and was connected to the local taxi service in short order. Just as he started back up the stairs, the vicar came through the kitchen door.

"Christopher! Good morning. Ready for some breakfast?"

"I'm afraid I've already called for a taxi. Sam's upstairs finishing her packing, and I was just on my way up to get my own suitcase."

"Oh? Why so early? I thought your train didn't leave until nine." Iain looked truly confounded.

"Change of plan," Foyle said tersely. "Would you excuse me, please?" He strode past the older man.

The taxi arrived just as Sam came downstairs, Foyle holding onto her arm. Mrs. Stewart had joined her husband in the hallway, looking just as puzzled as her husband. Christopher was sure that the two of them had been whispering, wondering what had precipitated the abrupt departure.

"Sam, dear?" Her mother reached out to touch her arm.

"Goodbye, Mum. Dad." She placed a perfunctory kiss on her mother's cheek, then did the same to her father.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Foyle said coolly, shaking hands with Iain. He placed the trilby on his head. "And a very happy new year to you both."

"And to you," Reverend Stewart answered, frowning. He trailed out the front door behind Foyle. "I still don't understand, Christopher. There is obviously a problem of some sort…"

Foyle glanced over his shoulder to where Sam was handing her suitcase over to the taxi driver, then turned back to the vicar.

"The problem, Iain, is your house. Sound carries a bit too well."

And he strode out to the waiting taxi.


End file.
